


Blame It on My Youth

by olippe



Series: In Between [1]
Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: Developing Relationship, Friendship/Love, Romance, Teenagers, i don't know what to put in tags, it's just paul being paul, ok here goes, two people being stupid, what's the tag for two people being stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24986995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olippe/pseuds/olippe
Summary: Paul said goodbye to Art after the Bandstand. But Art never really left.A little fic of Paul's little ventures that took place between "Into Each Other" and "Long Way Around".
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Series: In Between [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1808707
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	1. Changing Partners

**Author's Note:**

> Since the [series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629406) is about to end (SOBS), I'm thinking of adding little side fics of what happened in years between each part of the series. I'll collect them in new series; each will be relatively short (the sort I'd do in one sitting, like Days) .-. Already have several ideas, but might add one new title after each addition of chapter to the original series until it's actually finished ;v;
> 
> The title is based on Emilie-Claire Barlow's song uwu
> 
> This took place between [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22632166) and [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22664971)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul wants to renew his first kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely nothing happened here, just Paul being stupid and denying that he loves Art, so, you know, your daily stuff.
> 
> First chapter took place between two final chapters of [Into Each Other](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22632166?view_full_work=true) (●´∀｀●)

It was his first kiss.

He tried to think of possibility that he might probably have done it before with someone else that he wasn’t aware of, or simply couldn’t remember—but, no, everyone remembers their first time to do anything, and Paul’s first kiss was definitely that night, in the second floor’s bathroom, with wet head…

… and with Art.

Probably it’s easier not to think it ever happened. Art definitely was doing that, what with avoiding him and everything. But it’s probably easier for him. Paul could recall clearly—clearly, because he was incredibly jealous of this fact—that it wasn’t Art’s first kiss. No, there was… whatserface. Okay, fine, it was Pansy—Pansy Jordan. And it was several months ago, and Art couldn’t shut up about it.

And it wasn’t even his _actual_ first, was it? No, Art, when he was still grinning and giggling about his first kiss, had told Paul that someone had kissed him when he was 5. Some random girl from synagogue that he never knew the name of. So Art’s real first kiss was slightly messy as well, so that’s a relief, somewhat.

_His first kiss was Art._

Paul threw his book across the room and dropped his head to the desk, let himself be punched by the wood. It made him feel nauseous a little bit—a _lot,_ actually. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Where did things go wrong? Did he ever accidentally give hint that he’s interested in Art _that way_? Had Art ever exhibited interest in that at all? For all he knew, the weirdo only went out with girls.

Wait a fucking minute. _Have they been going out all this time?!_

“Ah, fuck it!” Paul exclaimed and stood up and kicked his chair. He jumped to his bed and buried his face under the pillow, not even bothering when his mother opened the door to retort him about the profanity.

***

In the future, Paul would tell people that this is the story of his first kiss:

He’d brought his guitar to the camp that summer. Now that people had seen him on TV, he had valid reason to put on a show. The only flaw in this plan was that he completely forgot that he did that stupid Southern accent on TV, and now he’s stuck with it.

“They were just joking, you know? Most of them know you’re not from Georgia.”

Paul frowned. “You mean, I could’ve just spoken like a normal person?”

Lucille—that’s her name, a fellow camp counsellor—giggled and nodded. “Yeah, but it was funny to see you struggle.”

“Wow, that was mean,” he complained, then laughed.

They were sitting by the pond while everyone else was packing in the cabin. Lucille had done hers and Paul couldn’t care less of his, so they snuck away to enjoy the sinking afternoon. The air was clear and crisp, dryer than expected and Paul had to keep his eyes slightly narrowed to keep the sunlight from burning his pupils.

“Paul,” she called him. Lucille tucked her hair behind her ear, and she looked so pretty when she did that. Paul offered a bored-sounding ‘hm’, which she’d been accustomed to by then, after several camps together. He’s not bored, she reminded herself. That’s just the way he spoke. So she continued on. “Well, I was thinking… Because it’s the last day and all… Can I ask something from you?”

Paul nodded. She looked at him with mouth slightly ajar, her lips withholding her real request and she eventually backed down. She sighed and looked down to the grass, her words betrayed her. “I want you to sing something for me.”

“Okay.” Paul had brought the guitar with him anyway, and had been strumming randomly as they conversed. “What do you have in mind?”

She shrugged, having no song prepared in her mind. “Anything. The one you sang on TV’s fine.”

Paul frowned at that. He joined the quiet observation of the grass with her, scowling at the wild thing as he considered his next words. “Nah,” he said. “That’s better sang with two voices. But I can play other thing.”

And Paul just played, without checking, without consulting. Lucille didn’t mind, but she noted that Paul looked very confused as he was playing. And he _was_ confused. A little. Because his first instinct was to play anything Everly’s, but he wound up strumming something slower, something softer, and wasn’t at all something he’d play idly.

> _Though we danced for one moment and too soon we had to part,_
> 
> _in that wonderful moment, something happened to my heart_

What a sappy song. Art would’ve liked this. Art _liked_ this, in fact. He loved these stupid, saccharine ballads—and quite rightly, too, because he had a voice that’s made for it. Art could sing anything, sure, but he loved doing these things.

Whoa, let’s not think about him _now._

Paul hastened the finalisation of the song and sighed, before addressing the quiet girl next to him. And she probably had been using her silence to build up courage, because when Paul stopped playing and turned his face, he found her fingers gingerly touching his arm.

Paul looked at her fingers, then at her, then he opened his eyes wide and the light from the sun, for a moment, blinded him. And in the quick moment of bright darkness, that night flashed: the dripping water, quickly losing its heat in November air, the towel, the smell of his no-tear shampoo, the fingers around his head, the pull…

… the lips.

Paul quickly closed his eyes. The little kiss was quick, but it happened. Her lips were moist and warm, and Paul, suddenly impervious to nervousness, reached out to keep her head in place when she was pulling away—and, there, the little kiss became long and real. And she kept her fingers on his arm, tenderly quivering, and her throat made very faint whimpering.

They broke away in silent but mutual agreement, and she looked more intently onto the grass, her face blushing under the setting summer sun. Paul put away his guitar and pulled her back into him.

When Paul told the story of his first kiss, it’d be completely different from how it really went. It was summer instead of winter, it was continuous instead of brief, it ended in silence instead of shouting, it was under the sky instead of on the bathroom floor, it was an orange afternoon instead of black midnight, he pulled instead of pushed, he kissed instead of being kissed, this was a brunette instead of a blond, she blushed instead of paled, and it’s a girl instead of a boy.

When she asked him if it was his first kiss, he said yes instead of being honest. When they parted, Paul felt like throwing up instead of whatever anyone’s supposed to feel after they kissed a girl. He wanted to go home and tell Art what happened, instead of trying to hold back his screaming alone. But he couldn’t tell him this, could he? But there were things he could’ve shared anyway: about the camp, about the stupid accent, about everything—he wanted to go home and see Art and tell him all these.

At the end of the day, Paul did threw up at the back of the cabin. Because he didn’t really want to tell anything. He just wanted to go home, and see Art.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shut up, i love patti, she's the sound of my childhood
> 
> (also, lucille's from everly's lucille uwuwuw)


	2. Down By the Salley Gardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears._
> 
> Paul's trying to recognise what it was. But he was young and foolish, and he didn't know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: odd event(s) involving bra at the beginning. they're both stupid, especially paul.
> 
> set after [the last chapter of Into Each Other](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22632166/chapters/54170548) and before [the first chapter of Long Way Around](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22664971/chapters/54171529). the little bit on the prom was mentioned in [chapter 2 of To Go Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23682259/chapters/56897482).

For the past few days, Paul had been learning how to unhook bra.

It’s quite a twisted practice, because he had to slip into the washing machine and take one of his mother’s, but Paul had no choice. It’s not like he could just go to a shop and buy one. Well, maybe he could. Could he? Did he _really_ wanna find out? 

No, risking anyone spotting him and telling his mother about this would be far worse than what he’s doing. So Paul just did it. It’s not gonna be funny when he had to do it and didn’t know how to do it. In fact, it _was_ funny—which was self-pitying way to say 'mortifying'. But it’s not like there’s tutorial for it, so he couldn't really be blamed for all this. Oh, wouldn’t it be easier if there was? Or even, a class. Three sessions on theories, then three sessions of practice; that would be perfect. If people would just normalise talking about the how-to of this whole undressing-and-what-comes-next thing, life would be much easier.

Paul’s taking Alison Keitsch to the prom. They’d been going steady for quite sometimes now, and… Paul had been in _that_ sort of situation with her. Oh, and he was seriously fumbling. It’s quite easy for Paul to just blankly say he’d never done that before, and Alison was relatively accommodating... but he wanted to be able to do it himself. And considering how _big_ prom felt, it seemed like a good time to have an at least nearly flawless night.

But he wasn't necessarily planning on going all the way on prom night. He simply wanna have one last fun with his friends and Alison Keitsch. Paul liked the idea of going to the prom with Alison Keitsch. She was small enough to not tower above Paul in high heels, good enough conversationalist, and Paul knew for a fact that she was a fantastic dancer. Not that Paul put a lot of emphasis on dancing skills, but it sure would be fun to not have his toes stepped on. Art was a horrible dancer. He pitied anyone who’s going to the prom with Art.

 _Who_ ’s going with him? Art had a pool to pick from, Paul’s pretty sure of that. He _might_ be too distracted to actually ask anyone, but Art was not necessarily _that_ slow when it came to going out with girls, so he definitely was going with someone. Who?

 _WHO CARES!_ Paul threw the bra away. He didn’t realise his windows were open, and now the underwear was flying through the air like an ivory-laced bird. Paul muttered ‘oh, shit’ under his breath and shuffled towards the windows in futile attempt to snatch the garment before it’s gone. But it’s already on its path, and Paul yelped when it landed on a passer-by’s head.

He almost hid himself under the shelter of his walls, but then he saw the unmistakeable golden bush on which the bra landed. The confused hand reached out and the owner of the hand shrieked and was startled by the discovery. Paul had to let out a loud laughter, that he abruptly stopped, although a little too late because the object of his entertainment had noticed the sound.

So Paul grinned and waved his hand. “Sorry!” he yelled. “Can you not fling that in public?”

Art, realising that he’s standing in the middle of the street in broad daylight with a piece of lady’s underwear in his hand, quickly pushed the bra into his bag, blushing miserably. “What the hell, Paul?”

“I said sorry!” Then, after a moment of silence, he added, “Can you bring that up here?”

And Arthur Garfunkel bolted into the house faster than Paul had ever seen him moved. Paul pressed his back against the wall below his windows, silently watching, waiting for the door to slam open and the racing boy to barge in. It all happened just as he predicted. Paul grinned, “Leave it anywhere.”

“I might benefit from a context,” he complained, but opened his bag and threw the bra away to Paul’s bed as per instructed anyway. He cringed at it, withdrawing a little. “Did anyone give you that?”

“No, that’s my Mom’s. And before you say anything,” he quickly added because Art’s opening his mouth, ready to accuse him of disgusting things, “that was for practice. I don’t have options, okay?”

Art frowned and moved closer against the door, cradling its handle. That reminded Paul of 11-year-old Artie who’s terrified to death of him. That was a funny time. “You don’t think you could just buy one? And tell the shopkeep that your Mom asked you to? You can shop far away from here, to avoid people you know...”

“What if my Mom finds it in my bedroom? I mean, if it’s hers, I can just say that she misplaced it with my laundry.”

Art thought about it. “You can just start cleaning your own bedroom.”

Paul laughed. Mostly at Art, for even suggesting that. And Art knew that he was being laughed at, so he also laughed—mostly at Paul, for sternly refusing to be responsible adult at all. They both liked it. They liked the fact that they laughed together again. Sure, they’re separated by a whole room, but they’re doing it again. They prolonged the moment even though the joke wasn’t a continuous-giggling material, and when they realised they couldn’t make it last forever, they stood still in strangely comfortable awkward silence.

“Nah,” Paul suddenly broke it. Breaking things; Paul did that. “That’s an unreasonably long-term solution for something I only need to do for a short while. It’s not like I’m gonna be clueless with underwear for the rest of my life, is it?”

Art, ensured by the laughter, encouraged himself to take one step into the bedroom. Just one. “You’re…” he began, then retreated again; the discomfort they shared since they decided to part ways in his bedroom suddenly came and crushed him like tidal wave. Art tried to sound nonchalant in his feeble attempt to resume their casual friendship. “You’re going to do... you know, it?”

Paul looked at him. He didn’t look back. “Maybe,” he said.

“So, how long have you been practicing?”

“A few days… Wait, are you mocking me?”

Art smiled to the floor. “A little. Sorry! That was funny! No, admit it, it’s stupid. No, no talking about practicality—admit it, it’s stupid. Besides,” Art pointed at where he flung the bra, “if you’re just hooking and unhooking like that, you’re not gonna really know how it’s like to do it for real. I mean, there’s gonna be a whole person around that… thing’s band,” he felt his face flushing and it’s embarrassing, but he couldn’t stop, “so it’s gonna be stretched and difficult to move… and you’re gonna have to do it without looking, and very distracted with all other activities that would be going on during the time when you had to do it…”

“Hold up.” Paul folded his arms. “Since when did you become an expert in this? Have _you_ ever done it?”

“No…” he mumbled, pressing his side to the wall, trying to hide how his face looked like. “Not the… _that,_ you know? But… maybe… stuff leading up to it? Shut up. Don’t ask questions.”

“Whoa, you can’t expect me not to do that. Who? When? Where? What exactly did you do? How did you do it? How did you _get_ her to do it?” Art scoffed and shook his head. Paul groaned, messing with his hair. “Fine, keep your secrets.” Paul looked at the bra on the bed, then frowned. “I have my own thing to focus on anyway. So how about if I just put it around my pillow? Nah, that’s too big, I don’t wanna accidentally snag my Mom’s stuff, she’s gonna kill me. Look, how about my guitar? Ew, no. No, no, no, don’t even suggest it.”

Art giggled.

Paul grinned. “You know, if we’re still friends, I’d get out of my way to get _you_ to wear it just so I can have real practice.”

Words just came out of his mouth, didn’t they? Stupid Paul. Stupid Paul’s mouth.

He heard Art coughed.

“I mean, that’s weird, but…”

“No. You should go. God, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Just… Yeah, no, this is just… not sharing material. Don’t take it personally.”

“Right…”

“Yeah…”

And Art left.

***

Again, Paul wasn’t necessarily planning to do it on prom night. He wasn’t sure it’s on the plate. It sure felt like it, but he wasn’t about to ruin the whole night with being jittery. So he was feeling relatively light that night when he picked up Alison at her home, shiny shoes and sharp suit on and all. Alison Keitsch, who, in school days usually wore browns and greens, had worn bright lemon-yellow dress with intimidatingly puffy skirt, which made Paul realised that he was right not to plan anything that far after the prom: he completely forgot about learning how to navigate around petticoats.

But Alison wanted to do it. She said it so right after Paul parked the car, and Paul noticed how cold his fingers were becoming. He thought about it, then thought that he probably wanted to do it, too, so that’s a good thing. The not-so-good thing was, he wasn’t really prepared and was now both over-excited and extremely nervous. Alison said ‘after the prom’, and now Paul was thinking that he might have time to talk about this with Art.

And then he thought he’s being stupid, so Paul resumed his usual calmness.

He was distracted for the most of the prom, both thinking about what it might be like to _actually_ do it with a girl. It’s a weird feeling. It’s almost like the first time he had to bat first, and it was exciting and it made him proud and happy and all, but he also wanted to throw up and run away from the field. He never did, though. Paul was always good at channelling butterflies in his stomach to other things; that's his gift. This one, it came off as a perfect swing-dancing that got the two of them a round of impressed applause. The sound of people admiring him put Paul at ease, so he grinned and took Alison’s hand for a slower dance.

That’s when he saw Art accidentally tripping his date, distracted by the ruckus at the far end of the dance floor, and nearly kicked her face when she was down on the floor. Paul released Alison’s hand to put his over his mouth, and doubled over himself, suppressing laughter. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to come over and point and laugh at Art’s face.

Here’s what Paul knew for a fact: Arthur Garfunkel still wanna be his friend. From the desperate response to Paul’s running mouth in relation to the bra accident, that’s pretty apparent—Art would do _anything_ to go back to where they were before the time in the bathroom, wearing Paul's mother's bra included. And Paul had to admit that things would’ve gone with much more ease with Art around. The whole discussion on girls—not like they did this a lot, but they _did_ do this—would help a lot for situations such as this.

But, for Paul, it seemed to be much too late for that. Art kissed him. That’s the end of it. And it’s not even ‘I wanna practice how to kiss girls’ sort of accident—it’s really, actually, kissing with no agenda but to kiss.

Art didn’t reply when Paul asked if Art liked him. He just cried. Why did he cry? Was it a horrible thing to like Paul?

“Alison, do you like me?” Paul twisted the girl in his arms. She smiled coyly and nodded. See? She didn’t cry. It’s _not_ a horrible thing to like Paul.

And it sure didn’t feel like a horrible thing, too, to be liked by Art.

***

Well, Paul did it. The way this happened was: Paul drove Alison back to her home in appropriate hour, shook hands with her parents, went home and greeted _his_ parents, then climbed back down as quietly as he could, walked (ran) all the way back to Alison’s house, climbed _in_ to her bedroom, and there she was; already out of the dreaded petticoat. And they had sex with appropriate silence, then they talked and thanked each other, then, kept awake from adrenaline, they did it all over again. Alison had told Paul to leave when all sounds in the house were completely dead.

It’s much less easy to climb in and out of bedroom window when one’s hands were shaking like an earthquake, but Paul only fell on the last three steps, so, no permanent damage. And with the whole thing behind him, Paul had time to walk home in his own pace. He needed it anyway. He needed to process what just happened. He just lost his virginity—that’s the gist of it. It’s a weird experience. And scary, to some degree. It’s weird how it’s scary, because that’s all there was in that activity: him and Alison Keitsch, that’s all. No murderer, no monster, no teacher with wooden ruler. How did a girl’s naked body become so scary? Nah, it’s fear of a first time—of something unknown. The next one wouldn’t be scary, he’s sure of it.

After Alison’s house faded away, Paul felt much more relaxed. Now that the scary part’s partially processed, he had the whole ‘OH MY GOD’ thing to deal with. So now he couldn’t stop skipping. He needed to tell someone about this. He needed to tell _someone—_ his friends, Eddie, whoever—that he’d done this.

 _Imagine how easy it’d be if it were Art,_ he suddenly thought. _No bra or petticoat to worry about._ And _we can immediately talk about it afterwards._

So Paul stopped in his track, then felt that familiar nausea. He bent over and cradled his stomach, trying to soothe the pain. His first instinct was that he felt disgusted with himself—surely he couldn't even _have_ that sort of thought? It's probably that sort of thought that got Art to eventually kiss him that night. But Paul couldn't, even when he tried, feel disgusted at that. He thought it weird, but it didn't feel like taking out dead rat in a trap. So what was it? What was it that hurt him every time he thought of this? He never felt like this when he thought of Art before. Was it because they’re no longer friends? Was he sad?

And before he realised it, he’d snuck into the Garfunkel’s backyard, climbing the tree and the fences and all that. _How easy,_ he thought before he could help himself. But it _was_ easy. He’d known where to put his feet, when to haul his body. Paul tiptoed across the familiar garden of Mrs. Garfunkel, ducking carefully under what he knew was an area that’s directly within Jules’s field of vision from his bedroom windows, and nudged at Art’s windows. The curtains were drawn shut, but the frame gave way when Paul gave it a push. Even after that whole fiasco, Art still left the windows open for him.

Paul took off his shoes and climbed in. It was well past midnight, and even if Art’s done things that got him to be too excited to sleep, he’d have been asleep anyway. True enough, Art was a lump of kicking form under the blanket. Paul hated his kickings. In several times that they had to share bed together—for sleepovers, that was—Paul had been kicked into consciousness by sleeping Artie. When they're asleep was the only time that Art could really kick Paul.

Paul sat himself on the window sill, watching the way faint moonlight hit where Art was lying. Quiet as a mouse, Paul walked closer to the clock on Art’s bedside drawer, taking note on the time. But he didn’t immediately go home even though it’s really nearly morning. He looked down at his former best friend, whose lips were mumbling in his sleep. His nose made low whistling when he drew his breath. He thought about how a few minutes ago, he did this and under his gaze was Alison Keitsch, and his heart felt heavier than he could bear. He’d dismissed it then—just fear, just nerves. But as he looked at Art and he felt all the pain in his stomach gone and his heart lighter than air, he couldn’t help but falling to the floor, relieved and happy until he could no longer recognise the feelings.

Paul reached out to carefully take Art’s hand, and he let it stay there even though Art didn’t squeeze back. And he stayed there for the longest time, holding the hand, staring at Art, who finally stopped stirring in his sleep; at the way his eyelashes occasionally fluttered and revealed a glimpse of his blue eyes, at the way his nostrils flared and collapsed, at the way his lips pressed into each other as sleep suppressed words from the world outside his head. It made Paul wanna cry, though he didn’t know why.

In the morning, Mrs. Garfunkel complained that someone had trampled on her flowers, and Art was left to wonder why there’s a dirt track on his window sill.


End file.
